


The Songbird in the Gilded Cage (Whumptober 2020 Day 5)

by Jadelyn



Series: Whumptober 2020 [5]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Jealousy, Kidnapping, M/M, Mind Control, No beta we die like this asshole is going to when Geralt gets his hands on him, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:34:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27078916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jadelyn/pseuds/Jadelyn
Summary: When Jaskier goes to leave after spending the winter with Lord Mikolaj, intending to meet up with Geralt and return to their travels together, Mikolaj's jealousy gets the better of him and he decides to help Jaskier see the error of his ways. With his mind bound by a spell to keep him by Mikolaj's side, Jaskier must try to find a way to escape unless he wishes to remain Mikolaj's captive songbird for good.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Original Male Character(s)
Series: Whumptober 2020 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1953790
Comments: 55
Kudos: 351





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt: No 5. WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU'RE GOING?  
> On the Run | Failed Escape | Rescue
> 
> _[Kacyk](https://en.m.wiktionary.org/wiki/kacyk)_ is a Polish word for oriole, a songbird native to Eastern Europe (among other places). Mainly I just got kinda tired of the standard "lark" nickname the fandom uses and wanted something new so I spent more time than I probably should've researching Polish names for various birds. *shifty eyes*

Lord Mikolaj Pac's hand traced idle circles at the small of Jaskier's back. "You needn't go," he insisted. "I'd gladly keep you in luxury all year round. You'll want for nothing, my pretty _kacyk_. Food and wine, adoring audiences." He kissed Jaskier insistently. "Soft beds and as much pleasure as you can stand," he murmured against Jaskier's lips.

A thread of unease traced its way down Jaskier's spine. He ignored it. "Miko, darling, you're too kind. And of course it's a tempting offer, but I am a traveler by nature and in spring the road calls to me once more!" He gestured extravagantly toward the windows. "Besides," he added coyly, letting his hands trail across Mikolaj's chest, "how am I to write new songs to keep you enthralled, if I cannot seek my inspiration? I fear I would quickly grow dull and tiresome."

Something hard and calculating flashed behind Lord Pac's eyes. The thread of unease grew stronger, coiling in Jaskier's stomach. "Inspiration," he said sulkily. "You mean your muse, that - that _witcher_." He all but spat the word. "That's why you're leaving, to go find it."

Jaskier's jaw clenched with anger at the tone and the dehumanizing use of 'it' to describe his dearest friend. "Geralt is one such inspiration, yes," he said coolly, though not with the ice - or fire - Lord Pac's behavior warranted. It rarely paid to be outright rude to patrons, even after you had their money, a lesson he'd learned the hard way over the years. "But he's not the only one. If our paths should happen to cross I'll gladly hear his stories, but I'm not running off to seek him out or anything like that."

Which was a big, fat lie. He knew exactly where Geralt was likely to be at this point in the season, and the route he'd need to take and the speed at which he'd need to travel in order to ensure their paths did cross. But Miko was clearly jealous, so Jaskier opted for discretion as the better part of valor - _see, Geralt? He was in fact capable of doing so, when he wanted to_ \- and drew Miko into a smoldering kiss to distract him.

"I'll come back to see you, darling," he promised. "Maybe I can winter here again next year as well! But now I really must be off, need to finish packing and get some sleep. I mean to leave early tomorrow."

Milo's eyes were cold when he released Jaskier and stepped back. "Very well," he said. "Good night, Jaskier."

Back in his own room Jaskier quickly dismissed it as a simple case of the selfishness that was endemic to nobility. Miko would sulk for awhile, and Jaskier probably ought to steer clear of this region for awhile to let him cool down, but come winter he'd welcome Jaskier back into his court, his household, and his bed.

Thus reassured, Jaskier stripped down to his braies to get a few hours' sleep before leaving the next morning.

* * *

He woke up in the same state of undress but in a very different location. Disoriented, Jaskier tugged at where his arms and legs were bound to the straight-backed wooden chair he found himself strapped to. When he tried to lick his lips and call out for help, he realized there was a padded leather gag in his mouth. He whimpered.

"Ah, you're awake!"

With the voice, the rest of his confusion vanished in a puff of smoke as he recognized the room as Miko's private study.

And with that he realized that he'd clearly underestimated the extent of Miko's jealousy. Badly.

Miko came around and stood before him, smiling broadly. Jaskier glared for a moment, then thought better of it and wrestled his expression under control. Perhaps, if he stayed calm and didn't antagonize the mad bastard, he could still talk his way out of this.

Reaching forward, Miko laid a hand on the gag. "If I remove this, will you agree to keep a civil tongue and not scream? Not that it would do you any good if you did, but I have no wish to be subjected to such behavior."

What other choice did he have? Jaskier nodded, carefully keeping his face neutral. The gag came out easily enough and he worked his jaw, easing the stiffness from the muscles and joints.

"Why, Miko?" Jaskier asked. His voice was rough, his throat dry. "Why are you doing this?"

"Because you need help, Jaskier," Lord Pac said earnestly, hazel eyes wide. "You turned down an offer of proper noble sponsorship, a place in my home and my bed, just to go running off after a mutant. No one in their right mind would make such a choice! I'm trying to help you, kacyk. You'll come to understand, eventually. You'll thank me for taking such good care of you in your derangement, once you've returned to your senses."

The worst part was that it was all sincere. Jaskier could hear the truthfulness ringing in Miko's voice. He really thought that keeping Jaskier captive was the right thing to do, that the only reason Jaskier could possibly choose to leave Miko's household would be due to a failure of his sanity.

Suddenly he reminded Jaskier, with spine-crawling intensity, of his father. The old bastard had held similar views.

On the other hand, Jaskier tried to reassure himself, that just meant that he'd survived this sort of shit and escaped it once already. If he could just be patient, he could do it again. Lull Miko into a sense of security, let him think he'd won, and then slip away.

"So what is it you mean to do?" he asked. "Surely you can't intend to keep me tied to this chair the whole time." _Get him talking,_ Jaskier thought, _get a sense of what he's planning, and then counter-plan accordingly._

But in the next instant that all went to shit when Miko waved a hand and another man appeared at his side. "This is my court mage, Damian. You're right, I don't wish to keep you restrained so, but I must ensure you don't attempt to slip away from me before you're cured."

Oh, fuck. Oh no, oh _fuck_. This was bad. Jaskier was breathing too fast, too shallow, he knew, but fear was squeezing his ribs and he couldn't think and -

"He won't hurt you, Jaskier," Miko said. He obviously meant to be reassuring, but considering that Miko thought he was acting in Jaskier's best interest by tying him to a chair like a prisoner, the reassurance fell somewhat flat. "He's here to help, just as I am."

"And how," Jaskier asked shakily, "is he intending to do that?"

"That," Miko said gently, "depends on you."

"What does that mean?" Jaskier demanded.

"There are two ways to do this. One of them only works with your consent. The other can be applied against your will." Miko fixed Jaskier with a solemn look. "Obviously I'd far rather you agree to the easier option, but if we must do this the hard way then we will. Your safety is paramount, and this will ensure it."

"What are the options, exactly?" He had to know.

Miko sighed. "The preferred method would be for you to accept this." The mage produced a golden chain with a small ruby cabochon dangling from it. There was some sigil Jaskier couldn't quite make out engraved on the stone. "It will bind your will to leave, restrict you to the premises, and if you were to be taken from here somehow it would allow us to track you. But if the subject resists the binding spell, it risks further damaging the subject's mind, so I will only do it if you willingly consent to the spell."

"And the…the other way?" Jaskier's voice shook as he asked it.

The mage slipped the chain back into his pocket, then held out a hand with his fingertips hovering scant inches from Jaskier's bare chest. Chaos crackled around his fingers, another sigil glowing in the air between them. Jaskier could feel heat radiating from the sigil, enough to make him flinch back against the chair trying to get away.

"Think of it like a magical brand, of sorts," Miko said. "It will use pain to prevent you from leaving, activating if you go past the spell boundaries. And of course it would allow you to be tracked, but that's rather a moot point since the pain would quickly incapacitate and maybe even kill you if you were somehow to leave anyway." Miko gave a moue of distaste. "It's quite painful to apply, however, comparable to a real brand - or so I'm told - and the scar is rather disfiguring. Not to mention it's permanent; the spell boundaries could be altered, but the spell itself could never be removed. So I'd prefer to avoid it if possible. But as I said," he shrugged, "the choice is ultimately yours."

_Some fucking choice,_ Jaskier thought, but managed not to say it. Barely. Both options were utterly terrifying. One bound his mind, the other his body. The first was almost more frightening, the idea of suffering his mind and his will to be invaded and controlled by magic - but the second involved pain and, worse, was permanent. Jaskier simply couldn't allow that. He'd sooner die than let himself be made permanently a prisoner by magic.

"The first," Jaskier blurted quickly, before he could lose his nerve. "I'll agree to it. Please."

Miko gave him a pleased smile. "I'm glad, Jaskier," he said. "This will be much better."

"Yeah, great, can't wait," Jaskier muttered, twisting his wrists in their bonds. "Can we just - just get it over with?" He gave Miko a beseeching look.

His captor nodded, a sick mockery of compassion in his eyes. "Of course, _kacyk_. I know it's a lot to take in, I'm sure you're overwhelmed and ready to move forward. No need to drag it out." Miko himself unwound the bindings holding Jaskier's left wrist as the mage pulled the golden chain out once more.

Shaking and feeling sick to his stomach, Jaskier extended his arm as told. He recited words the mage gave him, agreeing to allow the binding, et cetera. The gold chain wrapped around his wrist, and as he and the mage spoke the final words in unison the ends merged into each other to produce a smooth, unbroken chain interrupted only by the cabochon and its sigil.

As it settled into place, a strange heaviness smoothed itself over Jaskier's mind. He could vaguely remember planning to leave the night before, but couldn't for the life of him remember why. He belonged here, with Miko, didn't he?

No…no, he was leaving to find…someone.

Wasn't he?

But who?

Miko's hands were gentle as he unfastened the rest of Jaskier's bindings and helped him to his feet. Jaskier let Miko pull him close, twining his arms around Miko's neck and kissing him. It didn't really matter, anyway, did it? Miko would let him stay.

And really, that was all he wanted.

* * *

It was his journal that snapped him out of it.

He'd returned to his rooms clad only in a borrowed robe, pleasantly sore and sated, enjoying the way some of the servants looked askance at his dishevelment. He'd looked at the bag he'd packed, ready to leave, and chuckled at himself for his foolishness. He'd ordered a bath drawn and while he waited, set about unpacking again since he had no intention of leaving anytime soon. And since the servants were still filling the bath when he finished, he'd sat down for a moment with his journal, intending to write for a few minutes before going to take his bath.

And now he was sitting at the desk, staring numbly at the page, at the name that had leapt out at him the second he'd opened the book.

_Geralt_.

That was who he'd been going to go meet up with. He'd told Miko that, and Miko had…had…

Jaskier stared at the gold chain around his wrist, stomach churning. The spell pushed at his mind, scrubbing away thoughts of leaving almost as soon as they could form. He wanted to stay, didn't he? He should stay. He'd told Miko he would.

"No," he ground out, teeth gritted and jaw aching. "It's spring. It's time to - to go. I'm supposed to meet Geralt. I…want…to go."

A bolt of psychic agony seared through his mind and he doubled over, clutching his head in both hands and whimpering. It hurt, gods, it hurt so badly, but his mind was clear, was his own for a few more precious moments and he knew he needed to keep this quiet. Knew that if Miko realized the journal could trigger his memories and desires strongly enough to challenge the spell, he'd find a way to take that from him.

The turmoil receded after a few more long, agonizing seconds. His mind calmed.

Jaskier closed the book and sighed. Perhaps a nice bath would help with his headache, and then he'd go see if Miko wanted any company for lunch.

* * *

He learned the boundaries of the spell over the following weeks. He could think of Geralt without pain. He could remember their travels together without pain. He could be angry with Miko for what he'd done, even hate him for it, without pain.

(Though he wondered, sometimes, whether that was a blessing or a curse. At least if the spell forced him to love Miko, or something like that, Jaskier wouldn't have to work to hide his revulsion and keep up the pretense of the grateful paramour when he was in bed with the bastard.)

But the instant he began to wish to leave, or try to make plans to leave, the spell would activate. It would purge the thoughts from his mind, and if he fought it the spell would cause that awful psychic pain, as though his mind were breaking apart.

So he learned, and he prepared his escape in bits and snatches of time, tiny fractions of a task, keeping his mind as empty as possible when he did. He purloined a sharp knife from the dining-table one night not because he needed to arm himself, of course not, how silly! He just thought it was pretty and it would mean he didn't have to go in search of a new quill every time the one he used got dull, if he could just re-sharpen it.

He found maps of the estate in Miko's study and looked them over, marking the quickest paths from the manor to the main road through the forest instead of along the drive, not because he was planning to go that way himself. He just wanted to look for how far he and Miko could go for a romantic ride and picnic in the woods without risking discovery by travelers.

He packed a smaller bag with just the knife, a waterskin, and some bread and cheese not because he intended to go anywhere, but because he sometimes got hungry between meals and didn't want to bother the kitchen staff. The knife was for the cheese, of course.

All the while, he lavished Miko with attention, spending hours in his bed like the happy, grateful lover he was supposed to be.

And if sometimes when he returned to his chambers he found himself emptying the contents of his stomach into the chamber-pot, or fighting the urge to scrub his skin raw in the bath, well. That was no one's business but his own.

* * *

Stupid, Geralt told himself. Unforgivably stupid. He knew better than to let himself believe in the pretty lies humans liked to tell themselves and each other. Especially the kinds of pretty lies told by fickle bards.

He should've known Jaskier would come to his senses eventually, would stop trailing after a filthy mutant on some ridiculous quest to rehabilitate a reputation that was, in truth, fairly earned and fully deserved. Should've known the bard would eventually accept one of those cushy positions at some Lord or Lady's court full-time, rather than leaving the lap of luxury behind come spring to travel with Geralt again. It shouldn't have been a shock to hear that Jaskier had accepted the offer to stay as Lord Mikolaj Pac's bard-in-residence (and lover, the gossips whispered) after his temporary post for the winter had ended. It shouldn't have been painful to re-accustom himself to silence and solitude, to walking the Path with only Roach for company the way he had for decades before meeting the persistent little shit.

He should've known better than to hope for anything else.

* * *

"Must you, darling?" Jaskier pouted prettily as Miko got dressed. "I do so love our little luncheons, our…afternoon delights."

Miko laughed. "I know, _kacyk_. So do I. But the Earl is here on business, and it would be terribly rude not to dine with him." Coming back to the bed, Miko bent and kissed Jaskier, letting a hand trail down his chest until he pulled it away just before reaching Jaskier's cock.

Jaskier whined into his mouth. "Miko!"

But the man only laughed again and stood up, patting Jaskier's cheek. "Tonight, little bird. You can have me all to yourself tonight."

"Promise?" Jaskier asked, giving Miko a coquettish look from under his eyelashes.

"Promise," Miko assured him.

The door clicked shut behind him. The smile slid off of Jaskier’s face as though it burned him. He made a rude gesture at the closed door, then got up and got dressed himself, hands shaking a little with anticipation.

This was it. The best chance he was going to get. Miko would be busy with Earl Mestwin all day, giving Jaskier plenty of time to get a head start on any pursuit.

Not that there would be pursuit, he told himself just as the spell began to press against him. Why would there be pursuit? He was just going to go for a lovely walk, since he had the day to himself and his lover was busy. He'd bring along his pack with a bit of food and water, in case he got hungry while he was out, and look forward (hah!) to seeing Miko after supper when Jaskier was called to entertain Miko and his guest.

Just a nice walk. That was all.

* * *

Jaskier felt it the moment he passed the invisible boundary set by the spell. The chain about his wrist suddenly tingled and began to grow warm. The spell wrapped around his thoughts, squeezing tightly. The urge to turn around and go back was almost undeniable.

But deny it he did. _Geralt_ , he thought. _I have to get to Geralt. He can help me._

He forced himself to keep moving. Putting one foot in front of the other. Again. Again.

It was late afternoon and the sun was slanting rich and golden through the trees when Jaskier heard the sounds of pursuit behind him. Men, and horses.

_Fuck_.

Jaskier broke into a shambling trot, then a stumbling almost-run. His wrist burned with the heat of the chain. The spell sent needles of ice and fire into his mind as punishment for his defiance.

And then he saw it through the trees: the road. He'd reached the edge of the estate and the main road.

The sounds of his pursuers grew louder. He wasn't going to be able to outrun them in the open.

In a flash he yanked the pack from his back and fumbled it open, drawing out the knife. Without letting himself stop to think about it he drew the blade across the palm of his left hand, leaving a deep slash bleeding freely. He dropped the knife, slapped his bloody hand to the trunk of the tree beside him -

"That's far enough, little runaway." The captain of Lord Pac's guard clapped a hand on his shoulder. "You've led us on a merry little chase, but his lordship is worried about you. It's time to go home."

"Yes," Jaskier whispered through numb lips. The spell washed over his mind and dragged his rebellious thoughts under to drown. "Home."

His bleeding hand hung at his side as he walked back toward the estate. Back to Miko.

Back where he belonged.

* * *

Jaskier must have passed out at some point, for it was a harsh backhanded slap across the face that brought him awake. He blinked blearily, almost laughing when he realized he was in Miko's private study again, tied to the same fucking chair as last time. Did the man have no imagination at all?

"I'm disappointed in you, Jaskier." Miko's voice was genuinely sorrowful. "I really thought you were doing better. And yet you still tried to run." He sighed, tracing a finger over the golden chain at Jaskier's wrist, then letting his touch trail up Jaskier's arm to his chest. "Perhaps we shall have to do this the hard way, after all."

"Miko," Jaskier gasped. "Miko, I'm sorry, I didn't - you have to believe me, please. I wasn't running away. Why would I ever run away from you?"

Miko raised an eyebrow. "And yet my guards had to chase you all the way through the woods, finding you just as you reached the western road. What would you call that if not running away?"

"I was running, yes, but not…not running away from you."

"Please," Miko said dryly. "Enlighten me as to the difference."

"I just went out for a walk," Jaskier said weakly. "You were going to be busy all day and it was a beautiful day, so I wanted to go for a walk in the woods. And then I - something happened. I don't know what. I had these memories, all of a sudden, and they were pushing at me to do…something. I don't remember what. I panicked. I ran. I got turned around in the woods, I didn't realize I was running the wrong way until I reached the road."

Miko's gaze still held a touch of suspicion, but it warred visibly with belief in his eyes. He wanted to believe it, Jaskier knew. Wanted to believe his captive songbird was happy in his gilded cage at Miko's side. "You had a bag you'd packed and taken with you," he pointed out.

Jaskier shook his head. "Just a snack, in case I got hungry. Miko, if I were trying to leave you, wouldn't I have at least taken my lute, my clothes? More than a single meal's worth of provisions?"

"Hmm." The suspicion continued to fade, but it wasn't quite gone yet. "And you've no idea what the memory was that triggered your panic? Or why it frightened you into running?"

Keeping his eyes wide and guileless, Jaskier shook his head again. "No, Miko. I swear it, my love."

Miko softened visibly at that. "I want to believe you, _kacyk_."

Jaskier held his breath. "Then do, my darling. Please."

But Miko gestured to someone behind him, and suddenly Damian the mage was there. "Is it true?" Miko asked him.

And then Damian's eyes fixed on Jaskier's, burning fever-bright, and Jaskier looked back at him and lied with every fiber of his entire being. He filled his thoughts with the story he'd spun, forced _himself_ to believe it so that the mage might believe it in turn. He twined an actual memory of a terrifying monster in the woods with the actual fear and horror of his captivity and the actual image of Geralt that always lived in his mind and his heart and presented the amalgamation with utter focus, total commitment on every level from the mental image to the emotional response.

At last Damian looked at Miko and nodded. "It's true, my lord. A memory of the witcher and a terrifying fight in a woods much like ours took over his mind and he fled in horror from it. Nothing more."

Jaskier sagged in his bonds with relief, sparing a tiny, brief second to be annoyed that the best bardic performance of his life had taken place only within his own mind for an audience of a single enemy mage.

But Miko's hands were on him, then, gently freeing him. Jaskier let himself be gathered into Miko's arms, clung to him like a lifeline.

"Forgive me, _kacyk_ ," Miko murmured into Jaskier's hair. "I shouldn't have doubted you. And I probably should have expected your memories of the witcher to take on frightening new dimensions as you recovered your wits and realized the true nature of the horrors he put you through."

Luckily Jaskier's face was pressed against Miko's shoulder to hide the instinctive eyeroll at that. By the time he lifted his head and kissed Miko he had his expression back under control.

"Thank you," he breathed against Miko's lips. "For understanding. For being patient with me. For everything."

"Anything for you, my songbird," Miko replied, leading Jaskier through into his bedroom, pressing him down onto the bed. "Anything."

Jaskier closed his eyes to hide his tears. Miko didn't notice.

* * *

It was purely coincidence that brought Geralt through the village nearest the Pac estate. Nothing more. Not a lingering thought that Jaskier might come down from the manor to play in one of the taverns. Definitely not a half-formed hope that he might hear of a contract that would give him an excuse to visit Lord Pac's estate and see Jaskier while he was there.

Which was a good thing, because neither of those two things happened. Which was fine. Because he hadn't been expecting them to. Or wishing they would.

Geralt was stomping along the western road out of town trying to convince himself of that when the scent caught his attention. He stopped, breathing deeply.

Blood. Human blood. A decent amount of it. And with it a hint of the salt-and-cypress scent that was as familiar to him as his own name.

_Jaskier's_ blood.

A snarl twisted his lips at the thought. He followed the scent to a tree by the side of the road and there it was.

A bloody handprint on the tree trunk. A bloody knife in the dirt beside it.

Perhaps Jaskier hadn't abandoned their travels by choice.

With a low growl rumbling in his chest, Geralt left the road and began to follow the blood trail. Whoever had dared to hurt his bard would pay in kind.

_Hold on, Jaskier,_ he thought. _I'll be there soon._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, y'all gremlins wouldn't just let it lie with an ambiguous/open ending, so I guess this is happening. I just want to remind you, I warned you all that if I continued it would get angstier before it got happier. You did this to yourselves, babes. 
> 
> (That said I'm enjoying writing the continuation, so I guess it's not too bad. *blows kiss*)

Days passed.

Turned to weeks.

Became months.

Belleteyn was a special kind of torture. Miko commissioned coordinating outfits for them for the festival in the colors of his standard, black and green. Jaskier was resplendent in green silk with black embroidery, while Miko’s more somber garb in black velvet with green trim gave him an air of gravitas as befitted a noble ruler; they made a pretty picture together, the lord presiding over the festival while his tame songbird fluttered about, bright and decorative.

He showed Jaskier off like some kind of exotic pet, and Jaskier spent hours before an adoring crowd escorted by a companion in all black, all at once so right it made him ache with loneliness and so utterly wrong it made his stomach churn. No less than three times over the course of the evening did he start to turn and make some joke to Geralt, only to meet Miko’s hazel eyes instead in a jarring moment of disorientation.

He didn't let it show, though.

It was a masterful performance, if Jaskier did say so himself. It wasn’t until his _beloved lord_ was peacefully sleeping off their exertions that he snuck away to find somewhere quiet to fall apart for a little while. He slipped away in only braies and linen shirt, unable to bear the touch of that fucking outfit on his skin any longer. His wandering found him a quiet nook in the gardens where he sat on a stone bench, drew his knees up to his chest, and wept with hate and futile rage and loneliness and fear all at once.

Perhaps, Jaskier thought dully, there would be no rescue at all from this hell. He’d left a signal of distress that would be clear as a beacon to his witcher, and it would be trivial for Geralt to find him from there - but the weakness in the plan was that it only worked _if_ Geralt ever passed by that spot. There was no guarantee that he would. And if he didn’t…

Jaskier stared at the gold chain about his wrist and clenched his fist until his nails cut into his palm as he battled the sudden impulse to tear at it, or to gnaw his fucking hand off like an animal caught in a trap. Well, he supposed, if it didn't work, he would just…have to get used to the feeling of clipped wings and learn to accept the unyielding bars of his pretty cage, wouldn’t he?

Blood dripped from his palm as he walked back to the house and back to his lord’s bed.

* * *

It was cooler under the trees than out on the road. Geralt was glad of it for Roach’s sake even as the contrast hooked little claws of guilt under his ribs and dug deep.

He had taken a circuitous route in his travels, pretending to himself that he wasn’t planning to come here, with the result that it was near-midsummer heat the trees shielded them from. And the blood he’d found - Jaskier’s blood, he thought again, fresh fury surging through him at the idea - wasn’t fresh. Which meant that, if it was in fact true that Jaskier was not here by his own choice, the bard had been trapped here for weeks, maybe _months_ while Geralt stubbornly pretended he didn’t care.

With a shake of his head, Geralt banished the thought. He could drown in guilt later, if it came to that. For now, the priority was finding out what had happened to Jaskier, and securing his freedom if he were here against his will.

He’d worry about everything else once Jaskier was safe.

It was barely mid-afternoon when he reached the place where the trail left the woods and approached the back gardens of Lord Pac’s estate. He stayed back among the trees, intending to wait at least until dusk before trying to get closer and investigate. Unless…

Turning Roach’s nose parallel to the treeline, Geralt skirted the borders of the estate and made his way around toward the main drive. There was an easier way to get in and get more information, he reasoned. Jaskier was known publicly to be living here as Pac’s court bard. And Geralt was known publicly to be a… to be _associated with_ Jaskier, enough that a visit shouldn’t provoke immediate suspicion. People did that, didn’t they? Stopped in and visited other people when they passed through a town where they knew someone?

So. He’d go up to the front door and try asking. At best, he might be able to speak to Jaskier directly and find out what was going on; at worst, he’d be turned away, which would be telling in and of itself, and then he could just loop back around and wait for dark before returning to investigate further.

* * *

Jaskier lounged in a corner of Miko’s study, playing his lute quietly. Nothing extravagant, not even singing, just offering his beloved a gentle backdrop to ease the tedium of paperwork as he tended to the business of his estate. Jaskier’s mind tended to wander along with his fingers when he played for Miko this way, so the messenger’s entry completely passed him by, as did the whispering as the boy delivered his message.

It was the sharp look that Miko threw his way that caught his attention. Jaskier stopped playing and tipped his head in silent inquiry.

But Miko shook his head and waved him off as he stood and went to follow the boy out of the study to deal with…whatever this was. So Jaskier simply shrugged and moved to start playing again -

“…fucking _witcher_ ,” Miko was hissing at the messenger as the door swung shut behind him.

Jaskier’s whole body jolted. His lute fell from nerveless fingers with a muffled yet melodic thump as it struck the rug at his feet. He stared at the study door, eyes wide yet nearly unseeing as the shock of remembering slammed through him.

Geralt. Miko’s jealousy, the spell. His journal snapping him out of the spell-forced haze. Careful planning in tiny bits and pieces. Geralt. Packing a bag, slipping away through the forest. Running. A knife, a message in blood. Geralt. Returning, waiting, waiting. Belleteyn and misery.

Giving up and letting the spell drag him under.

Geralt, Geralt, _Geralt_.

The name ran through his head over and over like a prayer. Geralt was _here_ , and all Jaskier needed to do was get two seconds to speak to him alone, or just…just get a message to him somehow, tell him Jaskier was trapped under a spell and then Geralt could get help and get him out of -

The spike of pain caught him by surprise. After weeks of letting the struggle lapse, he wasn’t as practiced at evading the spell; it had been foolish of him to actually think of Geralt’s help in terms of Jaskier leaving. Jaskier doubled over, choking on air, his stomach surging up into his throat.

He wouldn’t leave, of course he wouldn’t leave - he just - just…he was just tired of wearing this silly bracelet, it didn’t go with his outfits at all. He just wanted the bracelet off, so that he could wear more appropriate jewelry for court functions. That was all. Only that.

The pain eased slowly. He remembered how to breathe normally. He took deep breaths and got himself under control until the shaking finally stopped.

Jaskier stood and shouldered his lute. He smoothed down his doublet. He was feeling a bit snacky, really, and surely Miko had to be hungry after working so hard all afternoon. He’d just trot on down to the kitchens and get something for them to nibble on.

The fact that the kitchens were on the far side of the great hall, where Miko would go to receive a guest, was completely, entirely, and wholly coincidental.

\---

Something was wrong here.

The guards hadn’t barred him from entering, but they were twitchier than even a witcher's presence could account for, and he kept catching hints of hushed, half-aborted conversations, cryptic references to a _kacyk_ and Lord Pac’s protectiveness over it. Geralt waited in the great hall, on edge but carefully not showing it, as the page ran to fetch his lordship down even though Geralt had told him that he was only here to see Jaskier.

The man who entered the hall burned with a strange fervor, eyes glittering almost feverishly when his gaze alit upon the waiting witcher. Geralt’s hackles went up immediately as he watched the man stalk across the room toward him, face distorted in a snarl, tossing loose dark curls out of his face as he came.

Nevertheless, he knew how to play the game. “My lord,” he greeted the man, inclining his head respectfully.

“Witcher,” the Lord sneered in turn. Despite himself, Geralt’s eyebrows rose a little - he’d thought he’d heard that word thrown at him with as much venom as a human was capable of already, but his Lordship managed to outdo all previous instances several times over.

“Forgive me,” Geralt said, keeping his tone mild and not rising to the challenge. “I don’t mean to interrupt your day. I simply stopped in to visit Jaskier briefly, on my way through town. I’d heard he’d accepted a position here with you, and wanted to see him in his new home, congratulate him on his success. Is he available?”

“To come down and _perform_ for you?” Pac spat. The twin scents of jealousy and rage rolled off of him in waves. “So that you can try and tear him away from his home again? Force him back into your service?”

The situation was spinning out of control faster than Geralt could account for. What the _fuck_ was going on here? “My lord,” he said soothingly, raising his hands palm-outward in a calming gesture, “I fear there may have been some misunderstanding. Jaskier and I have traveled together from time to time, but that’s all. I have no claim on him, and I’m not planning on staying long enough to…” his voice trailed off a little, unsure how to phrase it. “I wouldn’t wish to intrude on his happiness here. I was just passing through and thought I’d stop in to see him and make sure he’s well.”

Lord Pac leaned in until he was inches from Geralt’s face. Grudgingly, Geralt had to give him credit: few men would try to crowd a witcher like that, or try to use physical intimidation on him. Not that it worked, but he gave the man credit for trying.

“Your very _presence_ intrudes upon our happiness,” he hissed. Up close, the scent of hatred was overwhelming and the fire in his eyes genuinely disturbing. “If you don’t leave this very instant, I will have you cut down where you stand.” Pac straightened up again, lip curling in a twisted smile. “Or perhaps I’ll have you arrested and hanged, so that my darling _kacyk_ can see for himself that you can’t trouble him ever again.”

Well, that definitely answered the question of whether all was well here. Geralt didn’t see any reason to force a physical confrontation prematurely, however, especially not if it would make this wild-eyed Lord feel the need to do anything to…further control the situation. So rather than meet the threat, he stepped back.

“Very well,” he said mildly. “I apologize for my trespass. I’ll see myself out.”

But even as he turned to walk away, the scent of salt and cypress reached him.

* * *

Jaskier’s heart began to pound at the sound of that deep, rough voice, sweeter to his ears than the loveliest song. He paused, listening at the back entrance to the hall.

And then that heart dropped into the pit of his stomach as he heard what that voice was saying.

“...some misunderstanding. Jaskier and I have traveled together from time to time, but that’s all.”

Logically he knew that was the wisest approach, whether it was true or not. That any admission of greater affection between them would only serve to enrage Miko further and make the situation worse. That it could as easily be Geralt playing to Miko’s demands as it could be Geralt continuing to deny that there was even something as simple as friendship between them.

Fuck if it didn’t still hurt to hear it, though.

Steeling himself, Jaskier slipped into the hall, keeping his steps aimed toward the far door as though he were merely passing through

“Jaskier?”

“Jaskier!”

The two voices rang out simultaneously: Geralt’s somewhere between incredulous and relieved, Miko’s…fuck. Miko sounded angry.

But Jaskier turned around, keeping his face guileless and open. “Yes, love?” he trilled, keeping his focus on Miko as though he hadn’t even noticed Geralt standing a few strides past him.

It mollified his anger somewhat, as Jaskier had hoped, and Miko crossed the floor between them with both hands outstretched, looking tense around the eyes but more frustrated, or perhaps concerned, than outright angry. Jaskier took his hands and tugged him into a kiss.

“I was just on my way to the kitchens, darling,” he said. “I thought you must be hungry after working steadily all afternoon and wanted to see if I could find some nice little treat for us to share.”

The lie - not a lie, not a lie, he reminded himself. Reminded the curse. The _excuse_ further calmed Miko and he smiled a little. “You’re so thoughtful, _kacyk_. Taking such good care of me.”

“Of course,” Jaskier said. He let a little concern of his own color his voice, then. “Is everything all right, Miko? You seem…on edge. Is there anything I can do to help?”

Miko drew breath to reply and Jaskier could already hear the ‘no’ forming on his lips.

But he paused, instead. Considered.

“Actually, perhaps there is,” Miko mused. “I have an unwelcome guest who was trying to insist upon your presence, but I didn’t want to trouble you and was doing my best to run him off. But since you’re here, perhaps you wouldn’t mind saying a brief hello and sending him on his way yourself? I imagine he’d listen to you better than he’s listened to myself so far.”

“Anything for you, my dear,” Jaskier agreed amiably. He kept his eyes on Miko even as the man turned and led him back across the hall, hand tucked securely in the crook of Miko’s arm, refusing to acknowledge Geralt’s presence until he had to in order to minimize the risk of triggering the curse. His stomach was tying itself in knots as they walked, and he had to concentrate on keeping his breath as steady as possible.

Well. Not completely steady. Just steady enough for Miko not to notice anything amiss. But Geralt’s witchery senses ought to let him see past the facade. In fact, Jaskier was staking his life on it.

And then they were across the room and Jaskier was face-to-face with Geralt for the first time since last autumn. He stayed close to Miko’s side as he raised his eyes to meet Geralt’s.

The warm gold hue was exactly as Jaskier remembered, so familiar and so welcome he had to suppress a sob of relief. But as much as he wanted to fling himself forward and scream out what Miko had done, beg Geralt for help, simply grab onto him and refuse to let go - he couldn’t. He couldn’t afford to push the situation into open confrontation, not while he still had the stupid fucking curse on him. He was going to have to be sneaky about this. Luckily Geralt, being a witcher, had the extra senses that would let Jaskier communicate in ways Miko couldn’t possibly perceive.

So for the surface level, the part Miko would see, Jaskier kept his countenance open, eyes soft, a bit confused. “Hello, ah - oh,” he said, letting himself sound a little vague, a little hazy. “Ahh…Geralt, yes? What…” he bit his lip as though uncertain - or uneasy. “What, um, what are you doing here?”

But even as he kept his surface mien that of a man greeting an old acquaintance he half-remembers, he focused his emotions elsewhere, relying on Geralt’s preternatural sense of smell to catch the underlying message. He concentrated on his relief at seeing Geralt, his loneliness over the last few months, and the hard-burning hope that Geralt’s presence could mean…

Jaskier diverted his thoughts away from ‘freedom’ at the last second. Change, he thought firmly. Geralt’s presence here could change things. _Please, gods, let it change things._

* * *

Geralt narrowed his eyes at Jaskier. The bard was acting oddly, even by his standards. The display of over-the-top affection toward Lord Pac was…well, it had grated on his nerves, but it wasn’t that far out of the ordinary for Jaskier’s behavior with any given paramour.

But his oddly meandering words, the confusion and uncertainty - he seemed to barely recognize Geralt, or remember his name. Was he injured? Concussed? What the fuck had Pac done to him?

Geralt stepped forward, lifting a hand to reach for Jaskier, meaning to check him for possible injuries or anything that might explain whatever was happening here.

And Jaskier...flinched.

He took a half-step back, shrinking into himself, pushing a hand out in front of himself as though to hold Geralt at bay.

Jaskier _flinched_.

The bard hadn’t flinched back from him even once in all the years they’d known one another. Not even directly after that initial gut-punch - Jaskier had just scrambled up and kept on after him. He’d never seemed to understand why most humans _did_ flinch back from a witcher’s presence. It had always been as though the concept of a witcher being frightening were a slightly baffling joke to him.

But here he was, cringing in fear, hand hovering an inch away from Geralt’s chest to push him away if he got any closer, and Geralt couldn’t fucking breathe.

The moment shattered when Pac drew Jaskier into his arms and turned, shielding him from Geralt with his own body. Jaskier buried his face into Lord Pac’s neck as though relieved.

“Jaskier…” Geralt said slowly. He felt somehow numb and raw at the same time, worryingly fragile. “Jaskier, what…?”

Lord Pac turned his head and glared at Geralt over his shoulder. “Out, witcher,” he demanded. “You’ve done enough damage with your presence. Begone before I decide to have you killed for frightening my sweet _kacyk_.”

Geralt took a step back, then another. His hand dropped to his side and he retreated behind the hard, indifferent mask he’d lived behind for most of his life. Without another word, he turned and left.

* * *

Gods, Jaskier thought, that had been even harder than he’d thought it would be. The awful, shocked look on Geralt’s face when Jaskier had cringed away from him…he’d almost broken down and ruined the whole act, just to get that heart-shatteringly broken look out of the witcher’s eyes.

But the move had done what he’d needed it to. He’d used his left hand to push Geralt back, which had put the cursed chain around his wrist within an inch of Geralt’s medallion. It should’ve vibrated against Geralt’s chest, activated by the spell in the chain, just enough to alert him to some kind of spell being involved. And that, combined with the confused act and the not-at-all-corresponding emotional scents rising from his skin - not to mention the initial message in blood Jaskier had left by the road, which was almost certainly what had brought Geralt there in the first place - would’ve been enough together to tell Geralt that all was not as it seemed, and that Jaskier needed his help.

So he went to Miko’s bed that night with an odd sort of grim cheerfulness. _One last time,_ he thought as Miko moved inside him. _Enjoy it, my lord. Hope it’s worth your death._

And then it was over, Miko snoring away peacefully, and Jaskier settled in facing the balcony doors to wait for his cavalry to arrive. _Maybe literally,_ he thought. _It’ll be nice to see Roach again._

* * *

Turmoil chased Geralt down the hot, dusty road away from the Lord’s estate. His thoughts curled around themselves in fruitless circles no matter how firmly he tried to put the matter aside, always accompanied by the haunting expression of fear in those blue eyes and Jaskier’s hand hanging in the air between them, a physical barrier that spoke louder than a bruxa’s scream.

Stupid, stupid, _stupid_. He should’ve stayed away. Should’ve just trusted his first instincts, believed that Jaskier had finally done as Geralt had always known he would, found a court and some fine Lord under whose patronage he could settle down and live in luxury the way he was meant to. So much for that guilt at abandoning Jaskier to some kind of trap. He’d misunderstood everything, reinterpreted the facts to suit his shameful loneliness and wish for the companionship Jaskier brought to his life, and gone blundering in like a fucking idiot. It served him right, being flinched away from and thrown out like that.

He just had to remind himself that Jaskier’s presence had been a temporary aberration, nothing more. He was meant to walk the Path alone. As he always had. As he would continue to do.

Geralt pushed Roach and himself both harder than was his wont, trying to outrun his hurt and anger and shame, only stopping when it was nearly too dark even for him to set up camp for the night. He went through the motions on muscle memory alone: stripping Roach of her tack, brushing her down and checking her feet, feeding her. He didn’t bother with a fire or food for himself beyond a couple bites of dried meat so salty it made his tongue hurt, washed down with the lukewarm dregs of the water he’d had in his pack rather than going to get fresh water from the stream nearby.

Bare minimum of tasks done for the night, Geralt settled down to try to meditate. He wouldn’t be able to sleep, he knew that, but perhaps with some focused meditation he could get his mind back into some kind of order and just…put this whole shitty experience behind him. Remember who and what he was, and how he was meant to live.

Geralt actually preferred meditation to sleep most of the time. Dreams were strange, often unsettling, sometimes outright horrifying. Meditation, on the other hand, clarified his thoughts and helped him remember details and make connections he hadn’t quite recognized with his conscious mind.

Like the way Jaskier’s scent hadn’t had the acrid reek of fear, even as he’d flinched away, or the muddled notes of real confusion even as he’d struggled to recall Geralt’s name. He’d smelled of…

He’d smelled of hope, and loneliness, and relief. None of which were emotions that had shown on his face in the slightest.

Jaskier knew, better than nearly any other human, the extent of a witcher’s senses and the degree of detail Geralt could discern of someone’s emotional state based on their scent. And the bard was a consummate actor: if there were ever a human who would both know how and be able to communicate two completely different messages on two completely different levels, in order to convey a hidden message to a witcher without revealing it to another human, it would be Jaskier.

But the way he’d flinched, that hand between them…

A memory lightly, delicately floated up from some buried depth, past the smothering layers of emotional turbulence that had hidden it all day.

Jaskier, flinching back, his hand upraised between them. A golden chain, unlike any jewelry Geralt had ever seen the bard wear before, twining about his wrist. Geralt’s medallion humming lightly in response to a spell.

Geralt’s eyes snapped open, chest seizing fiercely until he could barely breathe.

_Fuck_.

Jaskier _had_ needed him. _Had_ been trapped and trying to communicate. And Geralt, like a fucking idiot, had let himself get caught up in his own stupid hurt and forgotten to look past it to see all the cues that had been screaming at him in a coded message only he could hear.

Only he _hadn't_ heard it, because he hadn't been _listening_. And now…

He'd abandoned Jaskier all over again.

Geralt shot to his feet, nearly stumbling in his haste as he went to Roach's side, reaching for her gear -

She lifted her head and huffed at him, sounding tired. The look she gave him was reproachful, and his heart cracked a little further.

He'd already pushed her too hard that day. She needed rest. She couldn't just turn around and race back this very second. Even if he forced her to, she'd be slow, and at best they'd get there after daybreak, losing the advantage of night for trying to break Jaskier out. And she'd be far, far too weary to carry them both safely away fast enough to avoid pursuit if any came after them.

No. He couldn't do that to her. Not even for Jaskier. As much as it twisted something in him to admit it, Jaskier would have to wait one more day. Come morning, Geralt would go back, and tomorrow night he'd go in and free his trapped friend.

Surely Jaskier could wait one more night. Right?

He tried to believe that as he returned to his meditation. He failed.

* * *

The eastern horizon turned to gold, and Jaskier's hopes turned to ash, burned away by the sun's fiery light.

He'd waited all night, twitching at every tiny sound, every movement of shadows. Geralt was here, he knew of Jaskier's plight - well, not the details, but enough to know Jaskier wasn't here of his own free will - and now that he knew it was needed, he'd come back and help Jaskier escape.

Only he hadn't.

Jaskier's heart was a cold, leaden thing weighing against his ribs until they began to crack. Geralt wasn't coming. Either he hadn't understood, or…

Jaskier couldn't imagine how it would've escaped the witcher's notice. Geralt noticed _everything_. Which would mean that Geralt knew, and had _chosen_ not to come back. Had _chosen_ to leave Jaskier to his fate.

All right, maybe they hadn't been the fast friends Jaskier had thought they were. But did Geralt really hate him that much?

He couldn't think about that. Couldn't let himself think about it or it would kill him.

And then Miko stirred slightly, beginning to wake. Jaskier's eyes fell upon his slumbering jailer, his captor, his - his fucking _rapist_ , and he thought about death and dying, and he smiled a hard, bitter smile.

If freedom wasn’t in the cards, then at least he could take the bastard with him.

* * *

Jaskier pushed Miko down on the bed and climbed on top of him, rolling his hips in a slow, sinuous movement that slid their cocks together. “Let me ride you tonight, love,” he panted into Miko’s neck. “Let me watch you spread out under me just like this, as you just lie back and let me please us both.”

Miko’s hands tightened on Jaskier’s hips. Even if he had gotten free, Jaskier thought, he might never have stopped feeling that grip, psychic bruises lingering where those fingers dug their prints in every night. Maybe this was the best end to hope for, after all.

He worked himself open, took Miko in deep, rode him thoroughly. He needed the bastard distracted before he could strike. So Jaskier played the willing whore for him one final time, waiting for his moment.

Miko’s voice went taut, his gaze distant. He threw his head back, arched and straining -

Jaskier clamped his hands around Miko’s throat with all the strength of a lutenist, compounded by the strength of his fury and resentment and loathing over having his fucking life stolen from him like this. He dropped his weight down onto Miko’s hips to keep him pinned even as the man bucked and writhed and the spell flared to life within Jaskier’s body. He dodged uncoordinated flailing strikes at his face, grimly kept his fingers locked as tightly as he could and ignored the blood that began to drip down his hands from the gouges Miko’s nails dug when he pried at Jaskier’s wrists.

He snarled, his own throat swelling and choking on a scream as the curse tightened its grip on him. Jaskier could barely see, vision going sparkling and dark at the edges interspersed with flashes of blinding light stabbing into his brain in punishment for his defiance, but he kept his eyes fixed on Miko’s face, refusing to give in. Defiance and punishment was woven into the very core of his being, always had been. He wasn’t about to succumb to it now.

The curse burned in his veins, crushed his nerves, tore through him on every level of pain possible and some he hadn’t even known existed. But it was only pain, only pain, nothing new, nothing different, and all that mattered was that when it finally consumed him he’d be able to die staring at the lifeless eyes of this man who’d looked at him and seen a toy, a pet, a plaything rather than a man.

Miko caught Jaskier’s cheek with a slashing gouge of his fingernails. Jaskier flinched back but refused to yield.

The pain was growing worse still. Jaskier could feel his body starting to fail under its onslaught. But Miko’s struggle was slowing, too. He only needed a little longer. Just a little more -

The balcony doors crashed open.

* * *

The room stank of the heavy musk of sex, the charnel reek of blood, the sourness of fear and pain and the searing scent of rage. The combination was nearly enough to turn Geralt’s stomach, and it took him a split second longer than it should have to recognize what he was seeing.

Even as he realized what was happening and started to step forward Jaskier twisted toward the sound of the intrusion, face contorted in a silent howl of agony, and the man struggling beneath him took advantage of his distraction.

One moment Jaskier was atop the man, choking the life from him; the next he was a tangled pile of limbs on the floor beside the bed.

And the moment after that, he was on his feet again, pinned back against Lord Pac’s chest with the point of a dagger pricking dangerously beneath his chin.

Geralt froze. Even he couldn’t intervene fast enough to stop Pac, if he decided to shove the dagger home. Jaskier would be dead instantly. Not even axii would avail him here - in the time it took to form the sign, Pac could end their standoff by drowning it in Jaskier’s blood.

“Let him go,” Geralt said quietly, keeping his voice low and calm. “You wouldn’t want to hurt your - your _kacyk_ , would you?” The word tasted bitter on his tongue, but he’d say far worse if it might get Jaskier out of this alive.

Pac laughed, wild and reckless, and pressed the dagger up a tiny bit more. Jaskier tipped his chin back further trying to avoid it, but a bead of blood slowly ran down the blade anyway. “Want to? No, no, no. Never.” His eyes flared with the terrifying conviction of a fanatic, then. “But I will do what I must to save him from _you_. Death at my hand would be a kindness by comparison. At least this way he’ll die pure. He can be remembered as he should, for his beauty and his talent and his light, not for his tie to a mutant and butcher.”

“He doesn’t need to die at all,” Geralt countered. “I’ll go, and no one has to die tonight. You don’t have to do this.”

But Pac shook his head and bared his teeth in a furious grin, more rictus than human expression. “It’s too late for that, Butcher. You speak three words to him this afternoon and tonight he turns on me, tries to kill me? No, it’s clear. You’ve already tainted him beyond redemption. All I can do is cleanse him of it in blood and restore his memory once he’s gone.”

“Damn it, Geralt,” Jaskier hissed through clenched teeth. His abdominal muscles twitched and rippled every couple of seconds, muscle spasms visible along his limbs as well. A drop of blood beaded at the inner corner of one eye and began to drip down, slow and viscous in a way tears could never be. “Just - just fucking _kill_ him already!”

“I can’t, Jas,” Geralt said helplessly. “Not while he has you - I can’t -”

“I don’t care!” It came out in a pained shout, raw-sounding and hoarse. “I’m dying anyway, just _do it!”_

Before Geralt could reply, Pac growled. “Shut up,” he snarled in Jaskier’s ear, jabbing the tip of the dagger a tiny bit deeper. “And you,” he said to Geralt, “Don’t you sully his ears with your voice. You have no right to speak to him. You caused this, Butcher, with your words and…you…you did this!”

Pac’s voice was a guttural howl of rage. His arm muscles tensed in the split second before movement, preparing to drive the dagger home.

The entire universe held its breath.

Jaskier screamed and convulsed, throwing his head back onto Pac’s shoulder, eyes rolling back, then went utterly limp in Pac’s grip.

Caught off-guard, Pac pulled the dagger a finger’s-width away as Jaskier writhed, then was pulled off-balance as Jaskier’s weight dragged him forward and down.

It was all the opening Geralt needed. Pac’s head hit the ground at the same time Jaskier did.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pac is dead, but will that be enough to save Jaskier from the spell?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you think we were totally done with the hurt part? Hahaha that's adorable. Buckle up, kids. 
> 
> (We're getting there. Let's call this the denouement of the hurt and set up for the comfort. It's coming. It's gonna be good. I promise. Just bear with me a little longer.)

Geralt tossed his bloody sword down next to the headless corpse of Lord Mikolaj Pac and dropped to his knees beside Jaskier’s still form, crumpled where he’d collapsed after whatever that strange fit had been. The only thing that kept panic from consuming him utterly was that he could still hear Jaskier’s heartbeat, erratic and thready and weak but still there.

He turned Jaskier over with careful hands, straightening his limbs to lie more comfortably. Jaskier wasn’t unconscious, as Geralt had half-expected - his eyes were half-open, lids heavy but eyes glittering beneath them.

But he wasn’t focusing on Geralt, even when Geralt leaned over him, even when he laid a hand along the bard’s jaw and tipped his face up. Jaskier simply...stared, blankly, through half-lidded eyes, his vacant stare unflinching even as Geralt wiped the trickle of blood from his cheek, thumb passing just under the tender skin around Jaskier’s eye.

“Jaskier?” No response. Geralt frowned and shook him a little, gently. Still nothing. “Jaskier.”

His gaze fell on the gold chain. Maybe the magic was still affecting him. Quickly he dug out the short length of dimeritium wire he’d brought, grateful for the gloves keeping its effects away from Geralt’s own skin. He wound the wire through the links of the gold chain, feeling the sympathetic vibration of his medallion weaken with each link he threaded the wire through until abruptly the thing fell apart in his hands and the vibration ceased entirely. He jerked it away from Jaskier’s wrist, retrieved the dimeritium wire - too valuable to just leave like this - and threw the chain with unnecessary force into a shadowed corner of the room, then turned back to see if that had helped.

But Jaskier was still unresponsive. His heart beat, his breath moved in and out of his lungs, but aside from that he might as well be dead. Geralt’s own heart thudded hard against his chest with growing unease.

A sound from down the hall caught at his attention, yanked his head up to stare at the door. Their confrontation hadn’t exactly been quiet, he realized suddenly. The estate’s guards had likely heard something, or a servant had heard and alerted them, and Geralt was about to be facing down armed men while standing over the beheaded corpse of their former lord.

With a sharp huff, Geralt dismissed the worry and unease for the time being, relegated them to some dark corner of his mind for later. It would do Jaskier no good for them to be arrested, maybe even executed for the murder of a nobleman. Quickly Geralt wrapped Jaskier’s limp form in his own cloak, then reached to reclaim his sword from where he’d dropped it in his haste. As he looked away from Jaskier for a moment his eyes fell upon Jaskier’s lute leaning against the wall \- in its case, with the songbook tucked into the back, which was a little odd. Jaskier only put both things away so thoroughly for travel, never when staying somewhere.

Didn’t matter. It made it more convenient, anyway. So Geralt gave his sword a cursory wipe on Pac’s silken bedsheets and sheathed it, swung Jaskier’s lute over his shoulder, and gathered the catatonic man in his arms. They dropped to the garden below Pac’s balcony just seconds before the inner door slammed open to admit the guard, and Geralt decided not to wait around to see how long it took them to send men out to check the grounds.

Roach snorted when he swung up onto her back, still holding Jaskier. “I know,” he murmured to her. “It’s an emergency. Just this once, all right?”

Bless her, she seemed to understand and elected not to fight him over being made to carry two when he turned her away from the Pac estate and nudged her into a swift canter. “Come on, Roach,” he said. “Get us away from this fucking place.”

So she did.

* * *

Midday found him walking alongside his mount, one hand bracing a still-unresponsive Jaskier as he slumped over Roach’s neck. They’d made good time, and he’d made certain to baffle their trail to throw off pursuit several times over; they were, perhaps, as close to safe as they were likely to get for the time being, and Roach needed a break from carrying the weight of two fully grown men.

Besides, walking and keeping Jaskier balanced helped occupy his mind, keeping him from spiraling further into worry and guilt over the bard’s continuing state of catatonia. Jaskier’s heart and breath kept their steady pace in time to the dull thud of Roach’s hooves on the dirt road, but Geralt still found himself wound tighter and tighter the longer they traveled without really understanding why.

It wasn’t until they’d stopped for the night and he was getting Jaskier down from Roach’s back that he realized what it was that had him so on edge. He tipped Jaskier down and caught him as he slid from the saddle, cradling the bard close to his chest, and ducked his head in a thoughtless gesture, seeking to breathe in Jaskier’s scent for comfort. And there was...nothing.

Oh, the core scent of him was there, that salt and cypress, but…that was all. Jaskier’s passions always ran high, his emotions vivid and loud no matter which way they were flowing. His scent was always overlaid by the musk and spice of arousal, or the warm honey of happiness, or the sour acid of jealousy, or any of a dozen other states. But now?

Now, there was nothing but the base notes of his scent, and it made Geralt feel as though he were holding a corpse despite the heartbeat that still thudded softly against his hearing and the gentle puffs of breath that spilled over his skin.

He made camp by rote, hands moving without his direction. He’d laid Jaskier down first, made him as comfortable as possible on a bedroll beside the fire before continuing on to the other tasks he needed to see to. His conscious attention rarely strayed from Jaskier’s unmoving form as he methodically stripped Roach of her tack and checked her hooves, gathered water to heat, and used what dried meat he had to start a simple broth, something he could hopefully get Jaskier to take even if he couldn’t get him to rouse yet.

Finally Geralt came back to the fireside and knelt beside Jaskier, mentally bracing himself for the next step. He’d barely looked at Jaskier’s condition since hauling him out of that fucking place in the middle of the night - even during the day, he’d been focused on putting distance between them and any pursuit and obscuring their trail to keep them safe. His cloak wrapped around the bard’s form had kept Geralt from having to see the details of his condition, but now, with a campsite and a fire and safety and solitude, there were no more excuses.

He gingerly unwrapped the dark cloth, drawing on decades of experience in the face of terrible injuries to keep his hands steady and a veneer of calm over his thoughts. It didn’t really make sense, on the surface of it - he’d seen far, far worse injuries in his time. Disembowelment, mangled limbs, outright dismemberment. This was just scratches and scrapes and blood. It shouldn’t be so affecting.

But it was on Jaskier, and that…that seemed to make all the difference.

Dampening a scrap of cloth with water warmed by the fire, Geralt began cleaning away the blood as best he could. The harsh copper scent, renewed in strength by the moisture, filled his lungs until he could barely scent Jaskier underneath it. There was blood streaked beneath Jaskier’s eyes - and, gods, _in_ his eyes, the whites blotched red with pooled blood, presumably from whatever that fucking spell had done to his brain - and smeared beneath his nose and about his lips. A ragged tear in his skin showed where Pac had caught him with a fingernail in his flailing, tracing from his cheekbone just below his eye diagonally across his lips and onto his chin.

Geralt flinched as he carefully dabbed at the edges of the jagged wound. It was almost a gouge in places, and suddenly all he could think was of the scar that was likely to form. Jaskier’s face, as much a part of his trade as his hands or his voice, marked forever - _marred_ forever - by what Pac did to him. By something that should never have happened to him, _wouldn’t_ have happened to him if Geralt hadn’t failed to protect him so badly that Jaskier felt his only option was -

A low growl escaped him and he shoved to his feet, stalking over to his packs. He dug through one saddlebag, then the other, with sharp, angry movements.

There - in the corner of the bag, a tiny wooden vial, tightly sealed. It was expensive stuff with not only herbs but enchantment woven into it as well, and Geralt hoarded it like dragon’s gold most of the time, but it was a human-safe salve that could speed wound healing and, more importantly, help prevent scarring. And if ever there was a time to use it, ever a scar he wished to prevent badly enough to use this salve on, it would be this wound, here and now.

He applied it as gently as he could, and the howling guilt in him was a little bit quieter when he moved on, taking stock of what injuries he had left to treat. Pac's dagger had broken the skin just beneath Jaskier's jaw, and though it hadn't cut deeply it had bled freely. There were more nail-gouges about both of Jaskier's wrists from where Pac had struggled and fought to throw him off. Geralt almost smiled a little, obscurely proud to know that had his own arrival not distracted the bard he'd have held his own against his enemy and been able to kill him without any help.

Jaskier's hair was clumped with blood, too, Geralt noticed when he tipped Jaskier's face to get another look at the cut across his lips and see how it was faring with the salve applied. It took a moment to figure out why, but then he remembered that Jaskier had been still slumped in Pac's arms when Geralt had struck the killing blow. No wonder there was blood in his hair. Geralt soaked as much of it free as he could without being able to properly wash his hair for him, using damp cloth after damp cloth to soften the dried blood and work the clumped strands loose from their blood-matted tangles.

At last Jaskier was as clean as Geralt could get him, given their present circumstances. He dressed the bard in a spare set of his own clothing, the shirt fitting surprisingly well across Jaskier's shoulders - and just when had he gone and developed such broad, sturdy shoulders as that? Geralt wondered - but draping a little loosely over his chest where he lacked the layers of muscle to fill it out properly.

And throughout it all Jaskier never stirred. His eyes stayed half-open, never yielding to true unconsciousness, and his heart beat on steadily, but otherwise he was as one dead, and the strangeness of it was beginning to crack the foundations of Geralt's composure. He noted the almost-trembling of his hands, absently, as he wrapped a blanket around Jaskier’s still form, and very carefully did not think about what it meant.

Thankfully Jaskier’s passivity was of the pliant sort, not stiff, and he swallowed by reflex when given liquids, which had been a growing concern of Geralt’s the longer the bard failed to fully wake. He gave him water and then broth, struggling a bit to gauge how much was enough or too much. He suspected Jaskier would continue to reflexively drink down whatever he was given and feared to overdo it; at the same time, he needed to keep Jaskier’s physical strength up as best he could. How much could a human eat or drink before it was too much? How much would a human need? Even after traveling with Jaskier on and off for the last few years Geralt hardly knew. He let the bard see to his own sustenance and for the most part relied upon Jaskier’s self-assessment of how much he needed to eat or drink, since a witcher’s appetites were different enough that he knew he couldn’t use his own needs as a guide. And now, that ignorance had come back to haunt him and he could only hope not to do anything that would make Jaskier worse.

Fuck, he hated feeling so...helpless.

After, he settled himself near the fire and simply...held Jaskier. Propping his back against Roach’s saddle and his packs, he got the man situated between his legs with his back against Geralt’s chest and wrapped his arms around him. Perhaps this was simply shock, of a sort, like an animal pulled from a trap. He’d seen it in children rescued from extreme danger, too. Sometimes it took time for fear to release its grip enough for a person to really function again. Maybe that was all this was, and if so the best thing Geralt could do was make Jaskier as comfortable as possible and just wait for him to feel safe enough for his wandering spirit to return. And with as tactile as the bard always was, he suspected physical contact would be one of the best things he could do to give him that feeling of safety.

Geralt very calmly and deliberately stomped down the part of his mind that wondered if it was for Jaskier’s comfort, or his own.

* * *

There was no change come morning. Geralt watched the darkness of night give way to the dim blue glow of pre-dawn and then the warmth of morning as Jaskier lay utterly still against his chest, the rising and falling of his ribs the only movement differentiating him from a corpse, and wondered what the fuck to do now.

Eventually he had to grudgingly admit that this was beyond his scope. He didn’t even know what was wrong with the man, much less how to fix it. They needed help from someone who knew more of this than he did.

An ordinary healer would likely be little help, Geralt decided. This damage had clearly been wrought by the spell in that bracelet. Perhaps a mage, then?

The problem was that Geralt had little love and less trust for most mages, and he doubted he had sufficient coin to attract one’s help anyway. The ones that wouldn’t ask for an entire season’s earnings would be interested in Jaskier as a question of research, and…

He shuddered. No, he wouldn’t entrust Jaskier to the untender mercies of a mage’s research. He’d seen how that tale ended before. The last thing they needed was some sadistic fuck looking to carve Jaskier up to see what the spell had done to him.

So. Not an ordinary healer, and not a mage. Who, then?

“Nenneke,” Geralt breathed, feeling almost light-headed with relief as the idea occurred to him. They were only a day and a half’s ride from Ellander. Nenneke was a better healer than any he’d met in all his travels, and while not a mage, he personally believed her to wield some kind of divine power of intervention like enough to a mage’s power. There was no other explanation for some of the incredible feats of healing he’d known her to accomplish.

If there was anyone out there who could bring Jaskier back to him, it would be her.

He struck camp and packed with a haste that bordered on haphazard, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was getting Jaskier to the Temple of Melitele so that Nenneke could heal him.

Roach twisted her head around and gave him a sullen look when he mounted with Jaskier. “I know,” Geralt said, leaning down to pat her neck. “Can’t be helped, Roachie. We’ve got to get to Nenneke as quickly as we can. Just for a couple of days, all right? For Jaskier.” She huffed and shook her head, but didn’t balk when he urged her forward, and really that was all he could ask for.

* * *

He hadn’t reckoned on just how grating the silence would be. Traveling in silence when he was alone didn’t bother him, even after having become accustomed to Jaskier’s constant noise and chatter - the road was a little lonelier now when they parted than it had been before they had met, but still tolerable - but there was something about having Jaskier with him and still being wrapped in silence…

So Geralt found himself talking, a little, filling the silence for Jaskier since Jaskier couldn’t.

“Soon, Jaskier,” he murmured. “Nenneke will know what to do, and she’ll be able to heal whatever’s wrong and bring you back. You’ll be all right soon. I promise.”

His voice ran on a little ahead of his mind, then, in a way it normally didn't. It was the silence, was what it was, and somehow or other the mention of Nenneke blended into thinking about the goddess she served. Geralt didn't care for gods and goddesses, as a rule - it wasn't that he didn't believe in them so much as it was that they just didn't…matter, to him. No god looked out for witchers, after all.

"It's not _my_ faith or lack thereof that matters, I hope," Geralt said. "Because if it is, Jaskier, I'm afraid we're both fucked. Unless I can pray enough during two days of riding to make up for half a century or more of neglect." He'd said it jokingly, but something in him twinged uneasily at the thought.

"On the off chance it does matter," he said, glancing up at the cloudless summer sky, "I don't suppose you'd be willing to give me this one on credit and let me make it up to you later?"

The goddess, predictably, did not answer, either because she wasn't listening, didn't want to answer a prayer from a witcher, or simply didn't exist at all. That was sort of the difficulty with gods - they weren't generally big on proving their existence in concrete ways, and Geralt wasn't in the habit of taking anything on faith without evidence to back it up. That was the sort of sloppiness that could get a witcher killed.

"Oh, well. Nenneke has faith enough for both of us," Geralt said, and laughed a little. The sound was brittle and strained. "I hope that's enough. It has to be. Because I - I never understood, if you are there and you are what Nenneke and her priestesses say, then how can you let things like this happen? Where was your infinite compassion when Jaskier was being caged away by that bastard?"

His throat felt thick suddenly, and soured by resentment. If he meant to get on a goddess' good side this definitely wasn't the way to do it, but he couldn't seem to stop himself. "Why let things like this happen to people who don't deserve it?" Geralt found himself demanding, harsh and angry. "Why let the good ones suffer? Why not visit these torments on the monsters who deserve them, like Pac?" His lips twisted bitterly. "Or like me? But the monsters get a merciful death, quick and painless. They don't even endure the slightest penance for what they did, while those they hurt simply have to suffer on. Where's your _mercy_ now?"

Geralt took a deep breath, forcing calm through his veins like a drug. "Or maybe I'm just tired. Arguing with a goddess I don't even believe in." He snorted. Roach snorted back. "Yeah," he agreed. "You're probably right." Silence, no matter how itchy it made him feel beneath his skin, was a preferable alternative to derangement.

He didn't speak again for two days.

* * *

"I'm sorry, Geralt. There's nothing I can do."

He stared at the priestess as she sat back. Her gaze was as gentle as it ever got when she met his eyes. "There must be something," Geralt insisted. "If not a potion, some, I don't know - some ritual or something. There has to be _something_ , Nenneke."

"I'm afraid not," she said. "Sometimes a fugue state like this is caused by physiologic factors, and that we could treat - but in that case there would be other symptoms, and those simply aren't there in your bard. His heartbeat is strong and steady, his temperature is normal, his limbs still pliant. Physically, he's fine. The trouble is within his brain, and that is not something we can fix."

"So…so, what, then?" Geralt's hand tightened over Jaskier's where it lay against the thin sheet Nenneke had draped over him. "We do…what?"

"Well," she said, "you tell me he will take liquids when given them, so he could likely be sustained in this state for some time if need be. But it would be no more than sustaining a body devoid of the person within, and he would require constant care." Nenneke sighed. "In truth, Geralt, it would be kinder to simply let him go, send his body to join his soul wherever it has gone to wander. There are herbs we can use that will make it painless and quick. If -"

"No!" Geralt found himself standing, the clatter of his chair as it toppled over like thunder in his ears. "You're talking about - about killing him! I won't. And I won't let you do it, either." His voice took on a note of pleading despite his best efforts. "You said he was physically fine, maybe he just needs time. If we sustain him long enough, he'll wake up."

Nenneke remained seated, calm and unshakeable. "I don't suggest this course of action lightly. I've seen this kind of fugue before, Geralt. No one has ever awakened from it, in all my years here."

"Of course not," Geralt said nastily, "when you have them put down like an ailing pet straightaway. The dead can't wake, after all. Did you even give them a chance to?"

A cold silence fell between them. Neither looked away.

At last Nenneke rose to her feet, facing Geralt over Jaskier's bed. But instead of arguing further she simply asked, "When did you last sleep?"

Caught off-guard, Geralt stammered out defensively, "I - I meditated." He hadn't been able to sleep at all, not since the night before he first visited Pac's manor; he'd barely managed an hour or two of meditation the night before despite his exhaustion, too churned up, too afraid he would rise from meditation to find Jaskier - no. He couldn't think it.

"You know that's no substitute for sleep," she scolded gently. "You're too tired to think clearly right now. Get some rest. We'll talk about this again tomorrow."

Just before she closed the door behind herself, Geralt replied. "My answer will stay the same, Nenneke, no matter how long I sleep."

She only shook her head and departed, leaving him alone with Jaskier once more.

Moving slowly, feeling ten times his real age and then maybe another century above that, Geralt righted his chair and sat again. He stared blankly at the wall above Jaskier's head, not quite able to make pseudo-eye contact with his glassy, staring gaze.

"I can't," he said quietly. "I could sleep for a hundred years, Jaskier, and when I woke I still wouldn't let her put you down like a fucking lame horse. But I don't know what else to do, I -" His voice broke, which should've been embarrassing - would have been, if he'd had any room in him for any feeling that didn't revolve around the man in the bed before him. Geralt coughed a little.

"I had hoped she would know what to do." He buried his face in his hands, hunched over with his elbows rested on his knees. "But all she can do is just…finish killing you the rest of the way. And I can't - I just can't allow that. I can't give up, you… _fuck_. You deserve better than that. Better than to have your whole fucking life cut short by one monster's possessive greed."

He shifted over to sit on the edge of the bed, taking Jaskier's limp hand in both of his. He looked at the hand, not all that much smaller than his own, but much finer and with an elegance he could never hope to match. The hands of a lover, a musician, an artist - not a warrior. Turning it over, Geralt ran his thumb over the calluses on Jaskier's fingertips.

"I miss it, you know," he murmured to Jaskier's hand. "Your music. When you're gone." His lips twitched in a tiny almost-smile, there and gone. "I give you so much shit about it because I don't want to encourage your already-overblown ego, but I do like it. Wasn't ever intending to tell you that, though."

Gods, this fucking silence was going to kill him. "I can't believe I'm going to say this, but I wish you'd say something. Anything. Just to prove you're still there. That there's any hope left at all. You can lord it over me til the end of time that I _asked_ you to talk of my own free will if you want, just - just fucking _say something_ , Jaskier. Please."

No response.

"What do I do, Jaskier?"

Still the silence stretched on, until Geralt felt as though he were coming halfway out of his skin at it. He curled his fingers tightly around Jaskier’s, stealing a glimpse at his face and immediately looking away again, unable to face that vacant stare.

"What am I meant to do with this?" he asked again, though quieter now. "With this, this silence? I can't fill the silence for you. It's not mine to fill -"

He stopped, glass-sharp shards of guilt carving through his chest. "Only, I suppose it _is_ mine, isn't it? It is now. After all, it's my fault you're like this. If I'd - if I hadn't been so fucking stupid - I should have known, Jaskier. Should've trusted you wouldn't just up and vanish on me without even sending word, should've known to come investigate sooner. Should've picked up on the signals you were giving me, when I did finally show up. But the first, I -" Geralt nearly choked on the words, but they spilled out anyway in a messy surge of hurt. "I've been waiting for you to leave for years. I told myself it was bound to happen eventually. That you wouldn't want to keep traipsing around after a witcher, that you'd settle down somewhere you could be really and truly happy. And yet when it finally happened, I wasn't ready. I let myself be hurt by it, and then I avoided the whole fucking region trying to run away from that pain, so I didn't know you needed help. I wasn't there."

Geralt laughed, bitterly. "Not that my being there did you any good. I let my emotions get the better of me again, didn't think to look past the surface and see your message for what it was. Even when I finally came, it was only to walk away and abandon you again." Something suspiciously like a sob choked him for a moment. "But you _flinched_ , Jaskier, you flinched from me, when you never have before, and it - it cut right past all my defenses. I couldn't think. And if I had, if I had stopped for two fucking seconds and used my fucking head, I'd have known by that alone that it wasn't really your reaction. That it meant something was wrong. _I should have known."_

Easing closer, Geralt reached out and touched Jaskier's face. He made himself look at the awful, fixed stare, the way Jaskier didn't track the movement of his hand, didn't even twitch when it passed directly over his eyes.

"I could have spared you this," he said quietly. His voice felt as gravelly as it sounded. "I could have, if I'd done any part of this right. I _should_ have spared you this, and I didn't. I failed you so badly that you took the only way out left to you, and wound up like - like _this."_ It should have been harsh, venomous, that last word, but it came out aching and hollow.

"If Nenneke is right," Geralt whispered, stomach churning as he recalled her words and her proposed solution, "and there's nothing that can be done to bring you out of this, then in the end - for my failures, I've as good as killed you myself."

Suddenly he couldn't stand it any longer - this tiny room, this silence with only his own confession to fill it, Jaskier's unchanging un-response. He stood and strode toward the door, needing to be somewhere, anywhere else. The stables, maybe - he could go check on Roach. Or the cavern garden perhaps. Didn't matter. Just - anywhere but here.

His fingers had just brushed the handle of the door when a sudden overpowering reek of adrenaline assaulted his senses, accompanied by a strangled gasp. Geralt whirled back, his own adrenaline surging in response, and -

Jaskier's eyes were open. _Really_ open, fully, not the half-lidded stare of the past few days; open so wide the still-bloodied whites were starkly visible all the way around. He flung himself upright as though trying to tear his way free of an invisible grasp and his hands flew up to clutch at his throat, then dropped into his lap. Even as Geralt closed the few steps of distance between them Jaskier was clawing at his left wrist, scrabbling violently at the scabbed-over skin and making a terrible, panicked keening sound in the back of his throat.

Looking for the bracelet, Geralt had a split second to realize: trying to tear it off. And then there were no more thoughts, only bracing a knee on the bed, grabbing Jaskier's hands to still them lest he reopen the wounds, and leaning in to try to catch the bard's terrified gaze.

"Jaskier," he said sharply, demanding his attention. "Jaskier!"

His hands abruptly fell still in Geralt's grip, so still Geralt almost feared he was about to lapse back into that awful catatonia again. But Jaskier sucked in great lungfuls of air, shuddering, and slowly, slowly focused his eyes on the witcher in front of him. His eyelashes fluttered as he blinked rapidly as though trying to clear his vision. "Ge-" His voice broke. "Geralt?"

His voice was cracked and rusty and shaking and it was the most beautiful sound Geralt had ever heard. "Yeah," he said, feeling almost dizzy with relief. "It's me, Jaskier. I'm here."

But Jaskier's breath hitched a moment later and his eyes darted away, flicking around their surroundings like a prey animal desperately seeking the source of the rustling in the brush around it. "He -" Jaskier's hitched breathing grew faster, almost hyperventilating. "He, he - Miko, he…"

"He's _dead,"_ Geralt snarled, unable to gentle his tone at the memory. "He's gone, Jaskier. He's dead. I cut his fucking head off. He'll never touch you again, I swear it."

Perversely, the vitriol in Geralt's voice seemed to steady something in the bard. His terrified glancing around stopped; he focused back on Geralt, his breath slowing just slightly. "You're sure," he said, and it wasn't a question, except that it was. "You're _sure_ , Geralt, he's really gone, I -"

"I'm sure," Geralt said, calmer this time. "I promise you. We left his cooling corpse behind in the wreckage of his room. I cleaned his blood from my sword on his own fucking sheets, and left his head lying on the floor next to his body for his guards to find. He's dead, Jaskier. He is."

Jaskier nodded slowly. "Good," he whispered. "Good, that's good, it's - that's good…" He trailed off. His eyes dropped to where Geralt still held his wrists, and he seemed to curl in on himself. A single sob shook him, then another, and all at once he dissolved into tears, crumbling like brittle dry sand.

The movement to pull Jaskier close was wholly instinctive. Jaskier went with it almost bonelessly, half-collapsing against Geralt’s chest, sobs ripping through him hard enough to shake them both. But his arms snaked around Geralt’s waist and he clung, squeezing almost desperately, as though afraid either of them might disappear if he let go.

Geralt wrapped his arms around Jaskier in turn, stroking through his hair. “It’s all right,” he said, hardly even aware that he was speaking but needing to do whatever he could to soothe Jaskier’s anguish. “It’s all right now. You’ll be all right. It’s going to be okay.” He ducked his head down, closed his eyes against his own threatening tears, and just tried to breathe through the riotous surge of relief and guilt and joy and shame and - and -

Fuck, Geralt thought with a flash of panic. That was - he hadn’t meant to go and fall in - it wasn’t supposed to be - just - _fuck_.

But his unruly emotions were a problem for later. For now, Jaskier was here, hurt and traumatized but alive despite everything. For now, that was enough.

Geralt pressed his face against Jaskier’s hair and breathed in his scent, let it fill his head. Jaskier smelled like _himself_ again, not the flat dead mimicry of it that held only the base scent and none of the _life_ ; his scent was soured by fear and distress and cut through with the stinging, acrid saltwater of tears, but even that was better than before. It was…real, in a way he’d nearly begun to despair of ever experiencing again. Even the feeling of tears, hot and damp, beginning to stick Geralt’s shirt against his skin was welcome as another sign of life, like the harsh shuddering and heaving of Jaskier’s shoulders, so completely unlike the steady, measured, utterly unchanging breathing Geralt had been listening to for the last two days.

“I have you, Jaskier,” he whispered, the knot of fear and helplessness in his chest slowly beginning to unwind. “I’ve got you.” It was as much a reassurance to himself as to Jaskier: it’d been a near thing, but he hadn’t lost him. He hadn’t. He still had him.

And if a tear or two of his own slipped free as he spoke and fell to dampen Jaskier’s hair, no one ever had to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I am become cliche, destroyer of chapter counts. Yes, I am That Fic Author who realizes the it-was-supposed-to-be-the-final chapter outgrew itself and needs to be split up. I'm just going to go ahead and assume that this will happen again with the next supposed-to-be-final chapter and give myself some wiggle room for it, so this is now 3 of hopefully 5.


End file.
